


a special light

by vlieger



Category: Goon (2011)
Genre: Dating, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:10:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2810114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger/pseuds/vlieger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obviously, Xavier wants to fuck Doug long before he gives a shit about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [specialrhino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/specialrhino/gifts).



Obviously, Xavier wants to fuck Doug long before he gives a shit about him.

Doug is stupid and too happy and doesn't know how to play hockey-- he steals Xavier's A and doesn't get what it _means;_ it's easy to not care about him.

He doesn't realise until later that Doug doesn't take, so much as roll sort of admirably with what's thrown at him. That he's simple in a way that's enviable. That he just wants everyone around him to be happy too. 

It takes him a while to notice that Doug has crawled under his skin, and he's actually happy about it. It takes him a while to even realise that's what he _is_ \-- he isn't used to being happy like this. It's been a long time, and even before the-- _before_ , it was this frantic sort of exhilaration, this desperate need to push it, almost 'til it hurt. To keep testing it. 

He's always been fucked up, maybe, even when things were okay.

 

He realises this, the whole caring about Doug thing, one time they're out after practice. Doug's brought Eva along, and Xavier's been cool with him for a while now, things have been easy and friendly and good, but he doesn't _get_ it until he looks away from the dancefloor and catches a glimpse of Doug and his girl. It's not even-- it's nothing, really, he's just got his arm slung over her shoulder and his eyes on the side of her face as she chats to Kim, but the way he's looking at her is-- it makes Xavier swallow. It's so open and bright, and even more terrifying is the way Xavier recognises it, the way it looks like how his insides feel. 

He feels hot, simultaneous spikes of _merde_ and jealousy in his gut. It's-- it's not right, Doug should be all eyes for Xavier, all the time, the way he is on the ice. Xavier realises he's something of an egomaniac, that he likes attention far too much, that he's childish and unreasonable about it, but that's not-- that doesn't mean he's any more okay with this.

It's a hockey thing, he knows, or at least that's where it started, because Doug-- Doug _fixed_ him when no one else could, Doug makes him feel safe and comfortable and like he can fly on the ice again, and that's-- he hated it at first, relying on someone like that, having to share what made him amazing, but that was before he knew Doug.

Now it's just-- it's just _good_ , and just because it's a hockey thing doesn't make it any less legitimate. Nothing is more real to Xavier than hockey. Nothing means more.

So this is-- this is kind of huge.

It's terrifying, obviously, because Xavier has never been like this, never wanted anything like this. He fights through it, though, and he does get over it eventually, the fear and the instinct to fuck it up, because he went back out onto the ice after his concussion, he faced Rhea, again thanks to Doug, and if he could do that he can do anything. 

 

After that, though, it just gets stupid. 

When everything else is gone, he just-- he just _wants_ , and it's kind of scary when there's no other option, when he won't let himself have another option: it's just Doug.

At least he's come far enough to realise it's a much healthier kind of fear.

He's not going to pick a stupid fight to throw Doug off or go on a crazy-ass bender to distract himself, because those were options he used to create to avoid what he really needed, born out of that awful, destructive fear he used to wear like a collar around his throat, tighter sometimes than others but never completely undone. 

Now, Doug is here and it feels like his throat is bare. Now, he's going to go after what he actually wants like a normal person, and if it doesn't work out, well. 

At least he's _trying_ , and Doug will still be his friend, win or lose, bar some monumental screw-up. That's just the kind of person he is, and Xavier is selfish enough to be grateful for it.

 

Doug keeps seeing Eva and Xavier starts relying on Doug when he can't sleep, closing his eyes and picturing Doug breathing on the other side of the wall.

He starts thinking of his apartment as _theirs_ and stops bringing girls back so much, although he tries to be subtle about it because he doesn't want Doug to notice, not just yet anyway. He doesn't think he will, Doug isn't the most observant dude ever, but it doesn't hurt to be careful.

It's just, much as he's okay about wanting to be with Doug or whatever, and plans to actually deal with what's really going on this time, he can't do it while Doug is still with Eva, because in the most ridiculous of ironies, being the kind of person Doug should get to have is also the kind of person who won't fuck up the relationship Doug is already in. He's not really angry, though. 

He thinks it might be good for him, having to take his time, letting things run their natural course instead of trying to force change or oblivion. That's how he did things for ages, with the pills and the booze and the girls, the shitty attitude. Then Doug happened, huge and stupid and unexpected, and he's still getting used to the quieter, deep-burrowing idea that Doug just makes his life easy, makes it _good_. 

That he stops Xavier from feeling like he needs to crawl out of his skin and do crazy, dumb shit like fuck all the girls and do all the drugs just so he stops itching, stops being afraid; so reality seems more bearable and everything in his head shuts the fuck up for a while. Doug does that just by being Doug, and it's suddenly so quiet inside Xavier's head, so glaringly free of terrifying obstacles outside of it. 

It's not a bad thing; it's just different, unfamiliar and _abrupt_ , like jumping off a rollercoaster and not finding your balance right away, that flash of panic because for a little while you forget entirely how to function on solid ground.

It's okay, though. It takes a minute, but it always comes back.

Xavier's slowly finding his balance with Doug, after that initial electric shock of a realisation that wow, he might-- he might actually be _happy_ , properly happy for maybe the first time in his life. It gets easier every day, easier to believe that this is really his life now: quick moments of vertigo followed by long stretches of wondrous, slowed-down quiet.

Doug is...peaceful. And Xavier's kind of forgotten what peaceful feels like. How nice it is.

(The irony doesn't escape him, either, the fact that Doug "The Thug" Glatt is the one person who makes him feel at fucking peace or whatever.)

 

So he waits it out over the summer. It's still frustrating, because he's only human and he _wants_ , but it helps to tell himself that this is helping him, too. If he still saw his shrink, he'd probably tell Xavier he needs this time more than he needs Doug right now.

Doug is _still_ seeing Eva, anyway, although she starts getting a restless, slightly pained look in her eyes whenever she's around, which makes Xavier weirdly happy and angry all at once. It's good for him, obviously, but doesn't she _know_ how badly she's going to hurt Doug, and how she couldn't find anyone better?

It's not her fault, though. Xavier gets that. He knows that look, knows that feeling. She's a nice girl, and she's been good to Doug, and he can't fault her for that or anything, not when he was exactly the same for so many years. It's just a thing some people grow out of, he supposes.

Others, like Eva, maybe don't. That's okay, because everyone should get to have something good until it's not good for them anymore, and Xavier is here. He's not going anywhere.

He lets it play itself out, obviously, and in the meantime tries to figure out what _he's_ going to do about it, when he has the chance. The thing is, he doesn't know-- he's not a relationship kind of person, or at least he hasn't been until now, and Doug _is_ , always has been. He might be all squared away theoretically, but in practice Xavier wouldn't have a clue where to start, let alone how to not fuck it up, however unintentionally. 

He can't fuck things up with Doug, not now.

Even if he doesn't think Doug will cut him out or anything, but he wants to be better than that.

In the end, though, maybe that's the solution as well as the problem: he _can't_ fuck it up.

He's still so out of his depth, so uncertain, but it's not one of those terrifying obstacles. It's not some looming thing that he sees no way of getting past, so instead he just does whatever he can to avoid it. That's all gone now, the desire to self-destruct and the reasons for it, and it's because of Doug, and it still feels like a good thing, this fear, this normalcy, not like it's messing him up. 

Like something that could be really fucking worth it, just like it was worth finally getting over himself with the whole Doug and hockey thing.

 

She leaves on a sunny day in early September. Xavier comes home to find Doug on the couch, staring into the middle distance, a beer cradled, forgotten, between his knees. 

"She left," he says when Xavier steps in front of him, blinking like he's just woken up. "I don't know what I did?"

"Nothing," says Xavier. "You did nothing, mon amie." He sits down next to Doug with a sigh. "Some people, they are not meant to stay in one place. Stay with one person."

Doug looks at him. "Like you?" he says.

Xavier twists his mouth. "Maybe," he says.

Doug goes back to staring at nothing. Xavier wishes he was the kind of person who knew how to be comforting. "Mon amie," says Doug after a moment, fucking up the pronunciation completely. It's kind of endearing. "What does that mean?"

"My friend," says Xavier.

"My friend," echoes Doug. "I'm glad I have friends." He glances at Xavier. "Are you going to leave one day too?"

Xavier thinks about it. He doesn't want to make promises he can't keep. "If I do," he says at last, "You will come with me."

"Okay," says Doug slowly, nodding. He turns a small smile on Xavier. "Thanks, Xavier."

Xavier's not sure what he did, but he shrugs and says, "De rien." 

 

He doesn't know what to do in situations like this other than go out and get hammered, so he does. It's kind of stupid, because Doug _won't_ get hammered, even if he nods and says, "That's a good idea," when Xavier brings it up.

He musters the entire team, because the thing they're best at next to hockey is drinking. For a while there it maybe even came out on top. 

Xavier works on slowly getting drunk and keeping an eye on Doug, even though Doug doesn't need it, is still the one who does the watching-out in their relationship.

Xavier can try, though, at least for the gesture if nothing else. He _wants_ to try.

It turns out there's also a lot of time to think when you're not throwing back the drinks so fast you barely have time to breathe. Xavier winds up thinking about Doug, of course, and specifically, how to go about _getting_ Doug now that Eva's out of the picture.

There's probably an appropriate amount of time to wait before he should make a move, like a mourning period or something, but well, Xavier's never exactly been appropriate.

He contemplates asking the guys what he should do, but he's not that desperate yet.

He has a pretty solid arsenal of techniques for getting laid, and they shouldn't take too much adjustment to work for getting him a relationship. Flirting, being nice, being sexy-- it's all pretty much the same, right? It seems like a pretty solid plan right then, anyway.

It's not like it's rocket science, or anything.

 

"Xavier?" says Doug later, as Xavier fumbles with the lock and startles himself when it actually works, stumbling through the door with Doug on his heels.

"Oui?" says Xavier, falling heavily onto the couch.

Doug just stands there, biting down on his lip. Xavier squints up at him; he lost count of how many drinks Doug knocked back at the bar, but he doesn't think Doug is sober.

"Coach told me once, don't go trying to be a hockey player, 'cause it'll rip your heart out."

Xavier frowns at him. "That's not a question," he points out.

"No," agrees Doug. "I'm not a hockey player though, not like you. Ross Rhea told me that, and he was right. But I don't mind. I like fighting. I like protecting you guys."

Xavier stares at him, then stands and moves closer to Doug, eyes narrowed. "Ross Rhea doesn't know shit," he says at last, turning his head to the side and spitting.

The corner of Doug's mouth lifts. "You told me I wasn't a hockey player too."

"Yeah, well." Xavier rolls his eyes, shrugs casually. "Sometimes I'm wrong, believe it or not."

"I believe it," says Doug, smiling properly.

"Fuck you, go to bed," says Xavier, moving off towards his room.

"Goodnight, Xavier," says Doug.

"Bonne nuit," says Xavier, sighing and shaking his head.

 

"Xavier?" says Doug through the wall a little later.

Xavier rolls onto his back and folds his hands over his stomach. "Yes?" he says.

"You know how Coach told me I shouldn't try to be a hockey player, because it'll rip my heart out?"

"Oui," says Xavier. 

"I guess I'm not a hockey player, so I don't know. Is it true? Does it rip your heart out?"

Xavier stares up at the dark ceiling for a long time. "Yes," he says eventually.

"Oh," says Doug. "Then why do you play, if it hurts so much?"

"Because hockey is my heart," says Xavier.

Doug doesn't answer for ages. "I think I get it," he says slowly, after a while. "Sometimes I feel like I might know. Like when Eva broke up with me today. It sucks. Love sucks. But it doesn't always suck. You gotta-- you gotta keep trying, 'cause sometimes it's the best thing ever. Like hockey, right?"

Xavier lets the corner of his mouth curl up. "Go to sleep, Doug," he says.

"Yeah," says Doug. "Okay, Xavier."

 

He wakes to a hangover and the sound of Doug humming off-key as he rattles around the kitchen. Cooking eggs, Xavier guesses, sniffing.

He stretches, closing his eyes and reaching blindly for the aspirin and bottled water housed permanently on his bedside drawers. It goes down bitter, and he grimaces, sucking it up and climbing out of bed so he can wash the taste away with coffee, and maybe some eggs.

The light in the rest of the apartment is blinding outside the shade of his bedroom, and Xavier pauses outside his door for a moment, watching Doug at the stove, the incongruity of his massive shoulders as he pokes delicately at the frying pan with a spatula. The smile tugging the corners of Xavier's mouth at the sight still feels slightly foreign, but not bad. 

Doug is still oblivious to Xavier's presence, which gives him a minute to think. In the end he decides to start implementing this...whatever with Doug right away, because fuck mourning periods anyway, life's too fucking short, and Xavier's about as patient as he is tactful.

"Morning, mon amour," he says, bumping Doug's hip as he reaches for the coffee.

"Morning, Xavier!" says Doug brightly. "Do you want some eggs? I made lots."

"Oui," says Xavier, bumping his hip again before slumping down at the table. "Thank you," he adds, when Doug sets a plate of slightly charred but not inedible eggs in front of him.

"You're welcome," says Doug, sitting down with his own plate. "Are you feeling okay?"

Xavier shrugs. "Better now," he says.

Doug doesn't seem to get the implication; just nods and shoves a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

Xavier rolls his eyes and takes a long, slightly too-hot mouthful of coffee.

 

The problem, Xavier realises pretty quickly, is that it just keeps going on like that.

It's not like he's ever had to work hard to get people to date him (or sleep with him, whatever), but he's actually _trying_ this time, and Doug is still annoyingly ambivalent.

Or well, as ambivalent as Doug can be.

He'll smile and look stupidly pleased at the attention, the friendliness (probably more pleased than it actually warrants, honestly-- Xavier knows, especially lately, that he isn't the greatest catch even in the friendship department), when Xavier tries to flirt with him, but either Doug is a really good actor (probably not) or he doesn't realise that's what Xavier is doing.

He's still Xavier's shadow on the ice, his fierce protector, and probably off it too, if it ever comes to that, but he's just-- there's no reason to think he's into Xavier, no reason to think he sees Xavier as anything more than a teammate and a friend.

So after a couple weeks of throwing all his usual techniques at Doug, Xavier comes to the somewhat disturbing realisation that he has _no idea_ what to do.

Nothing he's tried has had any effect whatsoever on Doug-- the flirting is going totally unnoticed, and even the casual-but-not-so-casual touches he tries to throw in occasionally go completely over his head, or even more annoyingly, are reciprocated in a totally dudebro manner.

There's the other stuff, but even Xavier realises that'd be monumentally stupid of him to try, because Doug doesn't go for drugs and that whole scene, never has.

It pisses Xavier off, because with anyone else it'd be a done deal by now.

But well, Doug _isn't_ anyone else, that's the reason he's doing this in the first place.

It occurs to him that part of what helped him the first time was seeing how well Doug worked not just with him but with the team as well, and so maybe he should ask their help here too.

Of course, he can't do that without copious amounts of alcohol, because much as it's tied up in all their lives, this _isn't_ hockey, and Xavier can't go point-black sober asking for relationship advice like some girl. The guys would laugh at him forever and then some.

Especially because it's him, and Xavier has always prided himself on never having any trouble getting laid, on being better than everyone else he knows at getting some.

This is more than just getting some, though, and he doesn't actually think the guys will be all that surprised if he tells them he has no clue how to go about landing himself in an actual relationship.

 

It doesn't exactly take a lot of strategising to get the guys to go out drinking again. Two days later they're at the same bar, the same table even, and Xavier pounds back the shots more steadily than he had the last time, not because he's feeling shitty, but because he has a _mission_.

It's nearing midnight when he feels sufficiently drunk enough to lean towards Gord and whisper-shout, "What do you do when you want to stop fucking everyone and start-- you know."

Gord puts down his drink and says, "Are you having _feelings,_ Xavier?"

"Answer the fucking question," says Xavier moodily.

Gord contemplates him for a long moment, then says, "Okay. You know everything you do when you want to get laid?"

"Oui," says Xavier, nodding and frowning, because that's what he's been _doing._

"Don't do it," says Gord. Xavier blinks. "If you don't just wanna get laid, you gotta change it up. Don't let them think you wanna fuck 'em."

"But I do want to fuck them," says Xavier blankly.

Gord sighs. "But that's not _special_ ," he says. Then he tilts his head. "For girls, I mean. Sort of. Mostly. Relationships are more special, is the point. Who is it, anyway?"

"No one," mutters Xavier, then ruins it by immediately adding, "So what, I'm supposed to pretend like I don't want to fuck them even though I do?"

"Exactly," says Gord.

"That's bullshit," says Marco. "Everyone wants to get fucked. Everyone wants to fuck. You gotta let her know you want her, but you also wanna, like, hold her hand and shit. You know, you're all cool to sit around and hold her hand 'til _she_ says it's time to fuck. It's all about letting her decide. That's how people know you're into them, man. You, like, care more about them than you do about you." He tilts his head. "I think that's what I meant."

"Yeah, you have to focus on the holding her hand bit, or she'll think you just wanna tap that and run," says Gord. "Tell her she's pretty, make out with her, but don't try to fuck her 'til she knows you like her. Like, for real like her, not just enough for a one-night-stand."

"But how is she supposed to _know_ I like her?" says Xavier. "You guys are shit."

"You date her, moron," says Gord. "Have you ever dated before?"

"Of course I've dated, fuck off," says Xavier. "It's just, this person is-- it's not like normal."

"What does _that_ mean?" says Marco interestedly.

"It means none of your damn business," snaps Xavier.

"Hey," says Gord. They both hold up their hands. "You asked us. We can't help you customise your dating experience or whatever the fuck unless we know who it is."

"Fuck, it's Doug, okay?" says Xavier loudly. "I want to date Doug, merde."

There's a ringing silence.

"Holy shit," says Marco eventually.

"It's about fucking time," says Gord.

"He doesn't notice anything!" says Xavier. "I don't know what to do."

"Well, definitely nothing subtle," says Gord.

"Right, grand gestures, motherfucker!" says Marco.

"Yeah, like-- I don't know, man, fucking cook him a romantic meal or something. Shit like that."

"Look," says Marco. "You gotta let him know you're done fucking random chicks, yeah? So like, you can't go straight out and just fuck _him_ , even though you wanna, 'cause it'll just look like another one in Xavier LaFlamme's long line of dirty one-timers."

"Fuck you," says Xavier.

"He's right, man, you gotta date him so it's like, he knows you don't just want him for his dick."

"Mon Dieu," groans Xavier.

"Exactly. And once he knows you love him and shit, he'll realise you wanna bang him permanently, and then you can suck his dick as much as you want."

"I'm leaving," says Xavier. "Right now. Maybe I'm never coming back."

"Listen to us, we're fucking geniuses," says Gord, saluting with an empty shot glass. "And don't fuck this up," he shouts after Xavier's retreating back. "If you go back to being a fucking tool like before Doug came along we're kicking you down to fucking peewee league, man."

Xavier flashes his middle finger over his shoulder.

 

Xavier's not entirely sure how or why he finds himself at the grocery engaged in an intense faceoff with a ribeye steak, but he's gonna blame it entirely on Gord.

What the fuck does that asshole even know about relationships; he's still not done battling out his fucking divorce.

He's even less sure why he hightails it out of the place with the steak in his cart.

 

"Are you going to therapy?" says Doug.

Xavier startles and drops the pepper shaker into the skillet where he's trying to brown the steak. 

"What?" he says, fishing it out and cursing when it burns his fingers. That's a weird non-sequitur even for Doug.

"Sometimes when my mom cooks she says it's for therapy," says Doug. "She looks kinda angry when she does it too, like you do now."

"I'm not in therapy, I'm fucking cooking," says Xavier.

"Okay," says Doug. "It's just that I've never seen you cook."

"It's my apartment, I can cook if I want to," says Xavier. "Go watch TV or something, let me finish in peace."

"Okay," says Doug again, grabbing a beer from the fridge before he disappears.

It occurs to Xavier that probably wasn't the greatest way to start off what's meant to be a romantic gesture.

Fuck it. Right now the fact that the gravy's smoking and smelling like something he'd puke up after a night of binge-drinking and getting high is further up his list of priorities.

 

"I like it," says Doug, eyes watering.

Xavier rolls his eyes. "It's shit," he says. "It tastes like burnt. Merde."

"Okay, it's a little bit bad," says Doug, smiling a totally unwarranted earnest smile. "You should keep practicing though. Soup is easy, right? I like soup!" 

Xavier just hums doubtfully and says, "Pizza?"

"Yes, please," says Doug.

 

They wind up in a kind of gross, definitely unromantic slump on the couch, surrounded by empty pizza boxes and beer bottles and watching _Warrior_ , because Doug likes the fighting and all the crying and Xavier thinks one of the brothers is hot. 

It's definitely not how Xavier pictured the night going.

He falls asleep with a half-empty drink in his hand and his head listing towards Doug's shoulder, and when he wakes up the movie is finished and Doug is shaking his elbow. 

"Xavier," he whisper-shouts. "You fell asleep. You should go to bed."

"Putain," mutters Xavier, but he struggles a little bit more upright.

He feels gritty and greasy and gross. 

"Do you need help?" says Doug.

"I'm fine," says Xavier, and goes to bed alone.

This isn't how it was supposed to happen at all. 

 

"It didn't work," says Xavier to Gord in the locker room. "He's still-- Doug."

A couple of the others look around interestedly, but honestly, at this point, and this early in the morning, Xavier doesn't really give a shit. Doug's already on the ice, the way he's started doing, going out there before everyone else to work on his skating.

Sometimes Xavier goes with him, gliding backwards in front of him and shouting instructions.

Not today, obviously. 

"Did you fuck it up?" says Gord, narrowing his eyes.

"No," snaps Xavier.

Gord just keeps on looking at him.

"Maybe," mumbles Xavier. "I can't fucking cook, okay, merde."

"Flowers!" pipes up Johnny out of nowhere.

Everyone turns to look at him.

"What?" says Xavier.

"Flowers!" says Johnny again. "Easier than cooking, totally romantic, right?"

Gord tilts his head, nodding slowly.

"Huh," says Xavier.

 

"Are we expecting company?" says Doug, indicating the flowers on the table.

"No," says Xavier.

"Oh," says Doug. "Then why do we have flowers?"

Xavier opens his mouth to say, _they're for you,_ but he just...can't.

It's too stupid, or something. Doug probably hates flowers.

He shakes his head and sighs, turning back to the TV. 

"I like them," says Doug a while later. "They're really pretty."

Fuck everything, thinks Xavier.

 

"You need to fuck him," says Evgeni, thrusting his hips.

"Fuck first, talk later," agrees Oleg.

"You fuck him right, maybe you don't need to talk at all," says Evgeni.

"You fuck him right, maybe you never talk again," adds Oleg.

"Maybe you let him fuck you in the ass, no?" says Evgeni.

"It mean 'I love you' in any language," says Oleg.

"Also 'I love your dick.'"

"Oh my God," shouts Kim, slamming his textbook down.

He's definitely Xavier's favourite person on the team. Apart from Doug, obviously.

"You need to connect on an intellectual level," says Kim.

There's a very long, very loud silence.

"I think they already do?" says Gord eventually, thoughtfully.

Xavier opens his mouth to tell him to go to hell, but Gord claps his back and says, "That's a compliment, dumbass."

Xavier closes his mouth again. He thinks about it; it makes sense, sort of. Xavier is the hockey player; he thinks about things in a way that isn't always helpful, he's complicated and messed-up and intricate. Doug is the enforcer; he's simple and straight-up. He does what needs to be done when he's told to do it. It works. They work. He knows this.

Gord slaps his back again. "You get what I'm saying, right, kid?"

"Fuck off," says Xavier. "Don't call me kid." But he nods. "I still don't know how to-- "

"I mean you should just fucking _tell_ him, dumbass," says Kim, rolling his eyes. "Has no one noticed you have to spell things out for the dude pretty clearly? Jesus Christ, how does this team actually function? Do a coach. Get a whiteboard. Yell it in his face."

Xavier stares at him. So does everyone else.

"Huh," says Gord after a moment.

"So _fucking_ dumb," says Kim, picking up his textbook again.

"You are all terrible teammates," announces Xavier, because seriously.

Also, he's maybe a little ashamed-- and a little _pissed_ \-- he didn't think of that himself.

But well, it's not that Xavier can't or doesn't talk, it's just that usually he talks shit, usually opening his mouth makes people mad at him, and this _means_ something, so of course it wasn't his first option, even though it clearly should have been. 

It's Doug, and Doug is easy like that, simple. He doesn't need much, and Xavier feels really stupid for not realising how to do this earlier, because well, he knew that.

He did. Really.

 

Xavier gets home first after practice, which means he has to wait for Doug, which sucks.

He wishes he'd just grabbed hold of Doug and dragged him home; Doug wouldn't have complained, he never does, even though sometimes he goes out to eat with a bunch of the guys after practice, with or without Xavier there as well.

Xavier had come straight home, obviously; he's not in the mood for his asshole teammates' knowing looks, or, God help him, them making hints at Doug. He probably wouldn't actually pick up on them, but that doesn't mean Xavier's any more amenable to hearing them.

He winds up watching some stupid show about psychotic housewives-- crazy fucking Americans, seriously, they're almost on-par with the Russians-- and twisting a bottle of beer almost nervously between his fingers. It's not until Doug comes shuffling through the door that he realises he hasn't actually had a drop of it.

"We need to talk," he says immediately, standing up.

Doug's eyes flick to the beer in his hand; Xavier rolls his eyes and sets it on the table.

"Are you-- are you leaving?" says Doug slowly, and Xavier's chest hurts a little.

"No, cher, I'm not leaving," he says.

"Oh," says Doug, visibly relaxing. "Okay. What's up, Xavier?"

"I want to fuck," says Xavier, slow and clear. And then, because you can never be too careful, with Doug, "Us. I want us to fuck. You and me, in bed. With the sex."

Doug just blinks at him, mouth open. 

Xavier sighs. "Also maybe-- " He cuts himself off. "Je t'aime, merde."

"Oh!" Doug's face clears like it does whenever something finally makes sense to him, bright and happy. He steps closer to Xavier, settling a hand on his shoulder, the hollow of his palm dipping down towards his heart. "I love you too, Xavier," he says solemnly.

"You." Xavier blinks. "You understand French?"

"No," says Doug. "I understand the way you look. Like you can feel your stomach light."

Xavier rolls his eyes. "I'm going to kiss you now, okay?" he says.

"Okay," says Doug softly, and Xavier-- Xavier does.


	2. Chapter 2

They've been officially dating for a week when Xavier buys flowers again.

It might be too soon, Xavier doesn't know, but well, he's already bought Doug flowers once, only Doug didn't know they were for him. He wants Doug to know.

This time, when Doug looks at them and says, "We have flowers again!" Xavier nods and says, "For you."

Doug gets this stupid wide grin on his face, stepping up to touch the petals gently with his massive hands, and it's-- it makes Xavier swallow, because this is Doug all over, this is why Xavier loves him. 

"Thanks, Xavier," he says quietly.

Xavier shrugs and says, "De rien." And then, because he's going to do this as right as he knows how, damn it, "The other ones were for you too. I forgot to say."

Doug's smile gets wider and softer all at once, which shouldn't work but does anyway, and he steps closer to Xavier, one hand curling over his hip and the other tilting his chin up. "They were really pretty," he says. "You're really pretty. Can I kiss you?"

Xavier rolls his eyes. "You don't have to-- " He doesn't get out the _ask_ , because Doug has already covered his mouth with his own, soft and sloppy and happy.

 

A couple of weeks after that, Xavier calls Cut's Steakhouse. He drops every name he knows, and hopes that those plus the beginnings of redemption attached to his own are enough to let him take home a couple of meals instead of dining in. It takes an impressive amount of additional cajoling, but eventually the manager gets the head chef onboard, if reluctantly. Xavier can hear some pretty creative swearing in the background, something about entitled brain-addled hockey players thinking they own the fucking town.

He doesn't really give a shit, as long as they do it. It's just, he's taken Doug on a parade of dinners at all the best restaurants in the city, and it's been nice, Doug had looked surprised and pleased every time, but it's also something where Xavier suspects neither of them are completely comfortable. Doug prefers ease and comfort over dressing up and having to be careful with fine china and cutlery and etiquette. He prefers beer over any kind of wine and only gets the gist of the menu about sixty percent of the time. Xavier is more practiced at all of it, maybe, but can't honestly say that means he's much more into it.

He figures Doug will appreciate something more casual.

He still wants it to be special, though, distinct from every other night they've spent at home on the couch with beer and takeout. He wants to make an effort, because they're dating now and he should, and because Doug deserves it and Xavier likes making him happy. Likes knowing he's done something _good_ for once. It feels important, to at least try to do as much for Doug as Doug has for him, even if it is just stupid little things, even though he probably never can.

 

He heads out a little early to pick up the food so he can make an additional stop to get some of the expensive beer, the one he knows Doug likes but almost never buys for himself.

The manager at the Steakhouse hands him his orders, boxed up neatly, with a smile so close to genuine it makes Xavier magnanimous, and he promises not to inconvenience them like this again, even leaves a fifty percent tip on top of it, because he's not always an asshole.

At home, he spreads the food out on the table with nothing but a plate and a knife and fork each, a handful of napkins dumped unceremoniously in the middle. 

Doug isn't home, but he should be any minute, so Xavier uncaps one of the beers, throws his feet up on the corner of the table and waits, satisfied. It's only about five minutes before Doug is letting himself in loudly, shouting, "Hey, I'm home," completely unnecessarily. 

"In here," calls Xavier, feet still up.

Doug stops short when he spots the table, blinking. "Hi," he says. "You cooked again?"

Xavier snorts. "No," he says. "Didn't feel like throwing up tonight."

Doug's mouth quirks upwards. "So what's this?" he says, sitting down and staring.

"Takeout," says Xavier.

"You can get takeout steaks?" says Doug, looking awed.

Xavier smiles. "Well, maybe not always," he says. "But it's better than some restaurant, no?"

"Definitely," says Doug, nodding fast. "Wow."

"Eat," says Xavier, waving a hand at the food. 

Doug stops with his knife and fork hovering above his sixteen-ounce Black Angus ribeye, medium rare, same as Xavier's. "Which bit first?" he says uncertainly.

"It doesn't matter," says Xavier, nudging the steak-cut fries towards him. "That's the point."

"Oh," says Doug. He cuts off a piece of meat and smiles around the mouthful. "Awesome."

Xavier nods and reaches for one of the Alaskan King Crab cakes, eating it one-handed while he smears garlic mashed potatoes and Bordelaise sauce over his steak with the other.

It's nice; he probably would've done the same thing at the restaurant, but here there are no badly-concealed looks of horror from passing waiters, which is a plus.

Besides which, Doug looks happy and utterly content, and Xavier feels the warm, still-new bloom of pleased accomplishment in his chest. He nudges Doug's ankle under the table.

Doug looks up at him and smiles again, eyes creased.

"I didn't get dessert," says Xavier, "But you can fuck me after, yes?"

"Better than dessert," says Doug firmly, nodding.

"Maybe we can use the maple syrup," says Xavier anyway, just for the way Doug lets out a startled snort and chokes on his food. "Instead of lube, no?"

"Too sticky," says Doug, swallowing and screwing up his nose. "But maybe for other stuff?"

Xavier hums, leaning forward a little. "Like what, cher?" he says, smiling slowly. "You want me to lick it off you? Or maybe we could pour it over my cock, and you can suck it off."

" _Xavier_ ," hisses Doug, cheeks heating up. He kicks Xavier under the table.

Xavier leans back, laughing. "Eat your dinner," he says. "Or no dessert."

"That's a lie," says Doug easily, smiling wide, sure. "You always want dessert."

"Well," says Xavier, picking up his knife and fork. He shrugs. "True."

 

The takeout thing went so well that it's a while before Xavier's willing to take it up a step. He remembers the utter disaster that was his last attempt at cooking. What gets him there in the end is how he also remembers Doug's earnest, pleased expression as he choked on the terrible food, the way he said, _you should keep practicing_ and _I like soup._

The whole point of everything he's doing is that he's trying to be _better,_ trying to make this as worth it for Doug as it is for Xavier, so he steels himself and picks up his phone.

He asks his mother for her soupe aux pois recipe before she can get out much more than a surprised greeting. He can practically _hear_ her frown over the line, and she dictates it for him suspiciously before she says, "Why are you making soup? Did you get injured again?"

"No," says Xavier, sighing. "It's for my-- my roommate. He likes soup."

There's a very long silence. "Are you apologising for something?" she says eventually. "What did you do?"

Xavier scowls reflexively, but he isn't actually really mad, because it's a fair question. "Nothing," he says. "I'm not apologising. I'm trying to be nice."

There's another extended silence. "Well, that's very sweet, Xavier," his mother says in the end. "I'm glad you're doing better. I was worried you couldn't still play and be happy anymore."

Xavier rolls his eyes at the wall, but he says, "Me too," quietly.

His mother clears her throat, then says, "Buy double everything, you'll probably ruin the first try."

Xavier snorts. "Oui, maman," he says.

"And call again sometime sooner than a year from now," she says. "You could have been dead, for all I knew."

"Oui, maman," says Xavier obediently, biting back the suggestion that she could just read the news. She'd probably come all the way here just to slap him.

"Good," she says. "Don't burn the house down." She hangs up.

 

His mother is right, of course. His first attempt is a too-thick, congealed mess that looks more like some kind of toxic waste than anything edible, let alone soup. He's not sure, because it's not like he's ever attempted this before, but he thinks it's a combination of not enough water and too much heat. He takes the second attempt at a glacial pace, cutting everything up meticulously and double-checking the weights and measurements, turning the dial precisely onto low heat and setting the alarm on his phone so he doesn't forget to take it off. He doesn't even leave the kitchen; sits at the table with a beer and his phone, scrolling idly through the NHL app between long stretches of glaring at the stove as he drinks absently. He jumps when the alarm starts blaring, and peers hesitantly into the pot. He blinks. It actually looks-- okay. He switches the heat off and grabs a spoon to taste. It's-- it's not bad. He blinks again and then grins, quick and fierce, and feels probably far more accomplished than the feat warrants.

 

Doug comes home from his now customary coffee catch-up with Johnny with a Danish for Xavier, wrapped carefully in a napkin. Xavier rolls his eyes and says, "Merci," setting it aside for later. Doug does this a lot, brings home sweets or stupid trinkets he picks up around the city because he thinks they're cute, and somehow that now correlates to Xavier. 

It's not like Xavier is much different, with the flowers and the meals and everything, but he thinks maybe they're coming at it from different places: Doug just because he's Doug and he's earnest like that, it's the way he is and he doesn't think about it at all, and Xavier because he doesn't know how to be half-assed about anything he's intent on, because he thinks about it all the time. 

Doug wanders over to the stove. "What's this?" he says, looking at the pot.

"Soup," says Xavier.

"You got soup?" says Doug, face lighting up.

"I made soup," clarifies Xavier, shrugging.

"Oh!" says Doug. His face does something weird, some expression Xavier can't quite catch, a little bit wary, maybe, along with a lot of pleased and excited. "That's awesome, Xavier!"

"Maybe," says Xavier. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes," says Doug. "I ate a cookie with Johnny, but that just made me more hungry."

"Well, then let's eat," says Xavier.

"Okay, yeah," says Doug. He opens the fridge. "You want a beer?"

"Oui," says Xavier. He pulls a couple of bowls out of the cupboard, some spoons from the drawer. He pauses, head tilted. "Table or couch?" he adds.

"Table," says Doug firmly. "Like a date, right?"

"Who says this is a date?" says Xavier, smirking.

"You made me _soup_ , Xavier," says Doug.

"Who says it's for you?" says Xavier.

"Oh, did you feel like soup?" says Doug. 

Xavier stares at him. He honestly can't tell whether Doug is fucking with him or not.

"No," he says in the end, rolling his eyes. "It's for you, mon Dieu."

 

"I want to try something after," says Xavier as they eat. "Sex," he clarifies.

"We've already had sex?" says Doug, confused.

"Something different," says Xavier.

"Oh," says Doug easily. "Okay, sure."

Xavier has a moment then where he's blindingly grateful that Doug is Doug and Xavier is better now, because if this was anyone else saying the same thing so easily and it was a year or more ago, Xavier would have ruined them. It takes his breath away, the rightness of both of them here in this moment, the intricacies of circumstance that made everything okay instead of the million probably more likely ways it could've been worse. The improbability of Doug being here in the first place, and the next-to-impossibility of him _still_ being here, and everything, including Xavier, actually being okay. The impossibility of Doug himself, really.

That's what it always comes back to, in the end: Doug, and how he fixed Xavier. How all of the infinite ways he's utterly different to Xavier are somehow still perfect for him.

He shakes his head and takes a long mouthful of his beer, trying to distract himself, because when he thinks too hard about all of this, about how having what he does now is statistically the most unlikely thing that's ever happened, how every other possibility he can think of outweighs the likelihood of this a million to one, it makes his hands sweat, tingly and terrified.

He watches Doug instead, eating his soup with this soft, pleased look on his face, and makes himself breathe out, because they _are_ here, after all, and it's stupid being scared of things that never happened. Almost as stupid as letting the bad things that did fuck him up completely.

He's trying really hard not to be afraid anymore. Mostly he isn't.

Doug catches his eye across the table and smiles, reaching out to grab Xavier's free hand with his own, a little cold and damp from the beer, tangling their fingers together.

Xavier doesn't even try to roll his eyes and keep up appearances. 

It's nice, so sue him. Xavier likes being able to call his life 'nice' now.

 

After, Xavier strips Doug out of his clothes and gets him facedown on the bed. He pushes his legs apart, spreads his cheeks, and licks a long, broad stripe over his hole.

Doug twitches so hard it knocks Xavier aside, and Xavier looks up along the muscled stretch of Doug's back to his face, where it's turned over his shoulder to stare at Xavier.

"Okay?" says Xavier.

"I-- yeah," says Doug, nodding. "Yeah, okay."

Xavier nods and goes back to eating him out. He isn't half-assed about this either, wouldn't want to be even if he had it in him, and next time he looks up Doug's got his mouth turned into his shoulder, eyes flicking to Xavier with this look of total surprised amazement.

"Has no one ever done this for you, cher?" asks Xavier, licking his lips.

Doug shakes his head. His back is getting damp, shoulders flexing unconsciously. "No," he says, voice hoarse. "No, I-- usually people like that I'm, you know. Bigger."

Xavier nods. "I like that too," he says, because he does. He likes when Doug covers Xavier with his entire weight and fucks him with all the power at his disposal, likes the way Doug's hands on him are still the gentlest things Xavier's ever felt, even as he's pounding Xavier into the mattress. How he treats Xavier like an equal and is careful with him at the same time, and somehow never too much of either. Xavier's not sure how he does it; probably he doesn't even realise, like the other things that just come naturally to him. Xavier's learning, though, more and more, that he likes surprising Doug too. Likes doing things for him with the same consideration that's inherent to Doug. "But I also like this," he adds, smoothing a hand over the muscled curve of Doug's ass, pressing a thumb against his hole. "You want me to fuck you, cher?"

Doug nods fast. "Yes, please," he whispers, eyes wide.

It's like a revelation, stretching Doug with his fingers. Doug is so beautifully responsive, always is, but with Xavier's fingers inside him it's amplified by a lot, the gasps and groans and contortions of his face. He fists his hands in the sheets, thighs tensing and quivering where they're spread alongside Xavier, and gasps, "Oh, _oh_ , you-- that's-- your hands, _Xavier_."

"You like them?" whispers Xavier, scissoring two fingers.

" _Yes_ ," breathes Doug, groaning.

"You will like my cock even better," promises Xavier, mouthing the swell of his ass.

"Ngh," says Doug, shivering.

"Lift a little, mon amour," says Xavier, sliding a hand under Doug's hip and urging him up, back arching. Xavier slides a third finger in at the same time, and the added stretch plus the change in angle makes Doug choke on a gasp, desperate and broken.

"Xavier," he says, low and dazed, "Xavier, what _was_ that?"

"That," says Xavier, pressing down on Doug's prostate with his fingers, grinning when Doug shudders hard and moans, "Is how I'm going to make you come."

"Please," says Doug. "Xavier, please?"

"Oui," says Xavier, pulling his fingers out and grabbing a condom. 

Doug looks back over his shoulder as Xavier slicks his cock, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. 

"Can I-- " He swallows, eyes on Xavier's cock, then looks back at his face. "Can I turn over?"

"Whatever you want, cher," says Xavier, squeezing the base of his cock hard.

Doug flips himself over immediately, pulling his legs up with his hands behind his knees, looking at Xavier with wide eyes, lip between his teeth, waiting.

"Si beau," murmurs Xavier, lining his cock up against Doug's hole. "Okay?"

Doug nods. "Yeah," he says. "Yes, please."

Xavier fucks him hard, because Doug can take it, because he _wants_ it. Doug is loud, moaning with every drag, every time Xavier bottoms out and hits him just right. Xavier digs his fingers into Doug's stupid huge thighs and fucks him until his eyes sting, steady until the shudder in him isn't coming just from Doug, until the heat tugging at the base of his spine is too insistent, and then he loses some of his rhythm but none of the intensity.

Doug doesn't seem to mind, drawing his legs up further and arching his back, fisting a hand in Xavier's hair to jerk him down into a messy half-kiss. Xavier's knees slip on the sheets and he can't make his thrusts quite as long like this, but the angle still seems to be good for Doug, so Xavier just presses his hips in hard, short little jerks, grinding against Doug's prostate until Doug lets out a desperate half-sob and says, "I have to-- Xavier, I have to-- "

Xavier has one hand braced on the mattress, now, the other splayed on Doug's chest, and he slides that one down to curl around Doug's cock, murmuring, "Oui, come on, come for me, amour." Doug does, hands in Xavier's hair, shaking as he shoots everywhere.

It makes him clench hard around Xavier, quivering with aftershocks, and Xavier moans, dropping his head onto Doug's shoulder and letting go, slumping onto Doug.

 

They lie side by side for several long moments after, breathing heavily. Xavier isn't inclined to move at all, possibly ever, but eventually Doug finds a stray t-shirt to wipe off his chest, and then he settles back with his head on Xavier's shoulder, stubble scratching.

Xavier snorts softly and lifts a hand to settle over the curve of his skull.

"Xavier?" says Doug.

"Hmm," says Xavier.

"What was that soup you made?"

"Soupe aux pois," says Xavier.

Doug is silent for a moment, and then he repeats it, hesitantly and terribly. 

"Pea soup," Xavier offers.

"Oh," says Doug. "That's easier to say."

"Only if you don't speak French," Xavier points out.

He feels Doug smile against his skin. "Xavier?" he says.

"Oui," says Xavier.

"I'm really happy," whispers Doug. "How do you say that in French?"

Xavier stares at the ceiling for a long moment. "Je suis heureux," he says.


End file.
